London Sunrise
by endearing-introvert
Summary: John struggles, even two years after Reichenbach. TW: Suicide


Violin. That's where you entered my dream tonight. Sharp notes dancing with smoke and I could feel them, breathe them deep. Now I'm looking. You dropped your phone, somewhere in this suitcase. It's pink, how peculiar. I don't remember you being so…flashy. It let's out Irene's moan and I look up to see her towering over me. She's so tall, so unfathomably tall. I reach up, I can't get up. I need help or I will fall into this giant hole. I can't see the bottom and I'm scared, where are you? Irene smiles and strokes my cheek and I tumble back. The well is yellow, slick with paint. I can't get a grip and I call for you, where are you? Water splashes around me, cradles my fragile body. The pool? Where are you? The smoke becomes thicker, black against the still full moon. Was the moon always there? Thick. The smoke was so heavy now it coated every cell of my lungs. I try to swim to shore. My heart will not be able to keep my blood red at this rate. Red, crimson blood. There you are, Sherlock! Can't you hear me? Sherlock! I'm exhaling ash, but you don't seem to mind. Your face is so close now, your eyes. Were they always this sharp? Ash falls onto your lashes and I reach out to brush them off. I touch your cheek but it cracks under my fingers. I hear the crunch of bone, but how could I do that? I'm not strong enough. I only shoot, I can't crush, no, Sherlock. More ash and blood. So much blood. It pours down your jacket, your eyes wide and gazing past me. No, Sherlock look at me. I'm here. I won't leave you, I didn't. The ash falls into my eyes as the smoke twists my fingers and I can only see red. I can feel red. The liquid runs between my fingers and I'm swimming in it. Sherlock! I can't see you anymore, but there's your jacket. I see it, unmistakable in this scene of destruction. I scream, but only smoke comes out. I can't breathe. Your jacket is gone. You, where have you gone?

In, out, in, out. Dark, it's dark and quiet and I'm… oh, God, I'm alone. I wipe the sweat from my face and let out a sharp breath. I'm alive. I'm…you're gone. You're gone, oh God, Sherlock. I can't keep sleeping like this. I can't keep meeting you in my dreams, it hurts too much and I'm so sorry. A sob breaks through my controlled breathing and it rips me down to the core. I'm so sore from crying. I didn't know that was possible, to have such intense grief that it rips you apart physically. The sun is coming up now and it breaks through the London skyline. Stretches out to greet every individual, giving them the hope of a new day. A new miracle. I've been waiting for mine for years. Years? Has it been that long? I pick up my phone and glance at the date, rubbing my thumb across the virtual calendar. Two, in fact. Two years exactly. I set the phone aside and run my hands through my thin hair and sigh. I can't do this anymore. It has been two years since…and I still can't eat, can't sleep. Two years since Sherlock, three since Afghanistan. I look up to the sun, shattering the dark. Hiding the stars from the bleak morning, and I realize that I can't take another sunrise. I laugh at the relief of it all. I laugh because suddenly I feel so light. Because suddenly everything seems to have fallen into place.

I walk into the kitchen. This flat is so much tinier than Baker Street. My fingers run through their daily motion, water, kettle, fire, tea, toast, butter, sit, eat. My phone buzzes, but I pretend not to hear it. Focus instead on the liquid in my cup, it's so still. I could be that still. I want to disturb it, I want to scream at it to move, but I can't. I am no genius, I am not God, I cannot disturb what has already been left to peace. So I stare and wish the world around me would shake. Suddenly my lungs burn and I realize I haven't been breathing this entire time.

Toast crumbles back onto the plate, and I set it down amongst all the other dirty dishes I have abandoned on the kitchen table. I haven't tidied up the place since Mary visited two days ago. Mary, what would I tell her? What does it matter? It doesn't matter. Ella told me time heals all, and Mary is no stranger to that idea. Unfortunately time left me behind at a petrol station and I'm stuck between leaving the past and running from the future. I am so stuck. The phone buzzes again. Another telephone call. I lace my arms through the jacket resting behind my chair and rise to the window. The sun is so high now, I wonder how long I was sitting at that table and staring into my cup. The clinic must be calling me, another missed day. I won't be returning there, I suppose. Traffic hums against the ancient streets. People calling out to each other, laughing, holding onto one another as though they might drift into space if they let go. A test of gravity, a test that many fail. Blood on the concrete, and then I walk away from the window. Suddenly I'm sweating again then realize I have my jacket on. When did that happen? No matter, time to go face the day. I need a walk before tonight.  
I trace familiar paths. If I look hard enough I can see your coat in between buildings, hear your shoes leap over sidewalk cracks. I can see my ghost trailing behind yours. It's dark. When did the sun set? I should head back. It has to be close to time.

London at night has such a distinct taste, a different symphony from the day. I remember loving it, soaking in the differences and watching you skate across the dark paths that only you knew so well. I knew you so well. The latch clicks into place. I realize I have lost mine completely. I walk to the drawer by my bedside and sit on the sheets that were pulled tight. Some habits never left me, some people did. My fingers journey in the dark against cold, hard metal. I lace my hand around the gun I kept for protection, the gun I kept sentimentally. It seems to weigh heavier tonight than it did before. I realize I should probably leave something. I reach for the notebook on my bedside table and scribble a sorry. That's all anyone would need. That's all I can give at this point. The barrel is full, I can feel that. I turn off the safety and stare at the gun before pressing it against my aching head. I can tell I'm smiling. I can finally fly away from this tragedy, I am finally free. My fingers slide into place. I can hear you say my name. Scream it. I know, Sherlock. I'll be there soon, I'm coming. Patience was never something you were good at, but please just spare me this moment to say goodbye to this empty room. Your voice is louder now. I'm coming, don't worry, I'm coming. I feel my fingers twitch and the shot echoes through the shell of my body. I open my eyes, and there you are. There you are, Sherlock. And you are perfect. I smile and fall into your arms and let the world go dark. You whisper my name over and over and the hum of the night becomes peaceful again.

Sun filters through my eyelids. It feels so warm today, so warm compared to yesterday. Yesterday, wait. I sit straight up and survey my surroundings. How…why am I still in my room? The blanket is tucked underneath me and…I scramble to the bedside table. The gun is gone from the drawer, but my note is still on top. I don't understand. I look back to the note and see that there's a small 'No, I am.' written underneath my 'sorry'. Someone was here last night, someone was here and saw me. Saw me…wait. I am so confused, my head starts to ache and my breath. It's leaving me I can't find enough air to supply my lungs again. I am alive. Why am I alive? How…I notice my shadow on the bed sheets. That's not coming from the window...that's coming from. Right, there's a hole in the ceiling. That was the shot. That's where it hit. Which means someone was here when I pulled the trigger. Someone pulled the gun away from my head. But who would have known? And how did I not hear them? All I heard was… No. No, no, no, no, no, no. I can't run out of my room fast enough. I tear the door open, practically off its hinges but no one is inside. Empty. Dishes on the table, shoes by the door, papers on the floor. Empty and the same. My sigh is broken and I sink to the floor. Nothing is making any sense. I was so delusional last night, maybe I was just dreaming it all…no wait, the hole in the ceiling and the note under mine. The note! I crawl back into my room and tear the note from the tabletop. That scrawl…I run my fingers and trace each stroke. All carefully placed and laced with public school education. Two years, and this is what I wake up to. My eyes are burning out of frustration because I really just cannot figure this out. The front door swings wide open and I smell Chinese. Chinese? My phone is in the discarded jacket by the door of my room and I crawl over to check it. Three in the afternoon. That can't be. Who is in my flat? Why am I alive? Who wrote that note? My head is spinning at the questions and my vision suddenly becomes blurry. I think I'm…I know I'm going to pass out. My door flies open right next to me, stirring a yelp from my lips. You, your eyes are so wide. So…sharp on me, I can feel them scraping my body. Looking for disturbances looking for…Sherlock. No. It can't be, you're…you're Sherlock. I grab the hem of your pants, my sight being clouded by millions of stars, and I begin to slump into your bony leg.

"How…" I mumble before everything turns dark again.

Gunshots. They echo about me. I can feel them graze my limbs, all of the bullets kiss my skin. I try to move but I can't. There are bombs strapped to my chest and I can't move because they'll see me and shoot me and then we will all die. I don't want anyone to die, especially you. I see you next to me. You cradle your head in your long arms, you are so scared. I want to reach out and run my fingers through your hair, tell you it's all right. There's no reason to be scared, I'm here. I won't let anything happen to you. "You did!" You shout at me and look up. Blood is dripping down your face, across your right eye. "You let me die, John." And then you crumple into dust. Not even bones, nothing to remind me of who you once were. All dust and then a bullet strikes my heart.

"John." A voice in my ear. It's impossibly low, but it brings me from my nightmare.

"John." It tries again, I feel something heavy against my chest so I scream thinking it's blood, thinking it's the bullet.

"John!" The voice urgent now and arms are wrapped around my body. I'm shifted up and held as fingers roam my body searching for the source of my cry. "What's wrong, John? Are you hurting?" And I can't help it, I let out a sob. Everything is impossibly complicated and so I just cry because I give up trying to feel. You shift me so my face is in your hands. I can barely make it out, but there's no mistaking you. Sherlock, there you are. I let out an unflattering burst of tears and snot and you look at me more concerned than I have ever seen you. You run your fingers across my cheeks, wiping away all the tears. "What is it, John?" You sound so scared. So hallow. But, who are you? You can't be him. You really can't. I tear your hands away from me because I'm suddenly so afraid.

"Who are you?" I screech in an inhumane manor. You jump back in alarm like I had just shot you. "John I know we've been separated for a large amount of time but it should be evident who I am."

"You're dead!" I retort, spit flying everywhere. You still look in pain and you raise your hand as if to touch me, to reassure me you aren't. "You're fucking dead, Sher—I was there. You are dead." I choke on his name.  
"I assure you, I am very much alive." You say softly and place your hand halfway between us, an invitation I suppose. But I ignore it. I sit grasping at all the thoughts and letting my chest heave.

"I had to…" You start and my eyes snap into yours. Your face scrunches up at the sight of mine and you look down at your hands before you continue. "…to protect you. I had to die. I had to disappear, or else they would kill you." Your voice breaks on the word 'kill'. You must have been here last night. It must have been you. No one else would have known. I notice you biting your lip, forcing back the emotion fighting to betray you, but then you look at me and hide your face in your hands. Suddenly my dream comes back and I tear your hands away from you and run my fingers across your cheeks, your forehead, into your hair. You are here. You… are definitely here. How can this be? You look deep into my eyes and I realize we've both stopped crying. You lift your hands to my cheeks and pull me against you, burying your head into my shoulder and wrapping your impossibly thin arms around my neck. I tangle my fingers tighter into your hair and hold you as close as I can. I don't understand, but you're here. Really, really here.

The tea isn't all that good, but I hardly notice. My eyes are glued to yours across the table. We spent a few hours clinging to each other on my old couch, but I hardly minded. I'm still struggling with the idea…no, the fact that you're alive. You explained to me how everything happened, how the fall was staged and that you've been working on destroying Moriarty's network these past two years but I honestly am not sure how much registered. You calmly sip your tea, holding my gaze. I clear my thoughts and try to ask one of the many questions I was afraid to hear the answer.  
"So last night, that was you?" Your face contorts and you give a small nod. You set the cup down as carefully as I know you can, watching its decent until you know it's safe.

"John," you practically whisper my name, "why?" Why? What an absurd question.  
"I just couldn't do it anymore. I couldn't…" I search for the best verb, but can only come up with, "live." Sherlock cradles his head in his hands.

"I don't understand, John. What could possibly be so terrible that would make you want to take your own life? The death of a friend is something to mourn, but it has been two years. You found new friends, you have a girlfriend. Your job has been going well and this flat isn't terrible." I realize it must be hard for you to understand the sentiment I'm feeling, but I am so angered by the question that I just sigh a response. It's so hard to talk about this, even with you back.

"I just couldn't deal with waking up. Smiling got harder…and I couldn't talk to anyone. I was just…tired, Sherlock. So tired. I just wanted to rest." I trace the rim of my cup with my index finger. This only happened to me last night, but it feels like ages ago. Your hand grabs mine suddenly and I shift my eyes to you. The red that seeps against your irises just makes them look brighter, more spectacular. You look so confused and hurt. So unsure of me. The feeling is mutual, Sherlock. I sigh again and cradle your hand in mine, giving it a soft squeeze to let you know I'm okay right now. You slide your fingers from mine and steeple your hands beneath your chin. I look down at my tea again and stare into the brown liquid.

Despite how much I have slept today, I still feel exhausted. You look drained of all energy too. We sat on the couch in silence after our partially eaten dinner of cold Chinese food. You told me a few stories about your travels these past two years, and I told you a little about my work at the clinic. We sit close together on the couch, but not touching. Still unsure of how stable the other is. I look to your face, sharper than when I last saw it. You look so thin and pale, so cold. I want to feel the heat of your skin, but I can't find the energy to lift my hand, so I wait until you notice my gaze. You turn your head and hold my eyes. I can feel so many questions hang between us. I blink and run my hand across my face.

"I need to go to bed, Sherlock." You nod, and I realize there's only one bed in my flat. I bite my lip and force my mind to think logically. The couch is obviously too small for you and…hell, who am I kidding? I'm going to need you in the middle of the night. I'm going to need you so badly. So I offer my hand and you take it without reservation. I slide into my pajamas and you decide to wear only your pants to bed. It doesn't matter, we both realize how asexual this night is going to be, and how badly I need the comfort of your presence. We slide under the covers and I gaze out the hole in my window. You catch my stare and I feel your arms tug at me from under the sheets, pulling my body closer. I sigh into my pillow, feeling so heavy.  
"I can't lose you, John." You mumble beside me. "You can't go, you can't leave me." I scowl and roll over so we're facing each other.  
"_I_ can't leave _you_?" I growl. You wince.

"Sherlock I thought you were dead. I thought you had left me. I thought it was my fault!" I am yelling now, but I don't care. The silence hangs between us for a beat before I whisper "I thought I had killed you." Your arms tighten around me and your breath shakes.

"I killed me, John." You whisper into my hair. "I died so you wouldn't have to, I died to save you. This…none of this is your fault." I can feel your mouth against my head, and you're here. You're here. I feel your breath spread across my skull and I curl up into your heat. My chest suddenly feels warmer, lighter. And I laugh because you're here and you're holding me, and I'm alive. I'm alive and so are you. So I laugh the hardest I have laughed in years. I just let everything out, every emotion I've bottled, every word I've locked away. And soon I'm crying again. You're holding me closer and I can feel your lips against my forehead as I cry into the arms of my best friend.

There are screams. Women and men alike, screaming and crowding on the sidewalk. I try to find out what's wrong, try to tear through the crowd and there you are laying on the concrete. The concrete that wouldn't catch you. I try to reach you, to step through the crowd but suddenly they're turning on me, fighting me, pushing me from you. I can hear you yelling 'You didn't do this, you didn't do this.' But they're louder and they're screeching murderer and pushing me down. They're trying to pin me. I scratch at them, throw fists, trying to free myself from their grasp and get to you. You're dying and I can't reach you. 'Murderer, murderer!' they're screaming into my ear. They've got me pinned. I yell for you. 'I'm sorry!' I scream as loud as I can. 'Sherlock, I'm sorry!'

"John!" You're on top of me, pinning down my arms. We're in my bed. What are you doing here? How are you…yesterday rushes back. Dawn is breaking the horizon and I can faintly see scratches on your face and shoulders and a bright ride spot on your chest where it looks like you were punched. Did I do that?  
"John, it was just a dream. You're all right now. John, look at me." I do as instructed and meet your frantic gaze. You soften your grip on my wrists and roll off the top of me and give a sigh of relief, running your hand through your curls. I wipe the sweat from my brow and clear my throat.

"I'm sorry if I hurt you…" I start before you wave your hand at me and then rest it on my cheek. "Everything is okay, John." You whisper and kiss my forehead softly before leaving the room. You kissed my forehead. That's…different. But so comforting. So, so comforting. Something only you would know to do for me. I throw on an old t-shirt and some shorts and walk out to you in the kitchen. The kettle is boiling and you're staring into my fridge as though it is a crime scene. I rest my hand on your shoulder and you turn to me startled.

"Are you hungry?" You nod softly and stand aside. I make some toast and decide to fry you an egg. We sit for breakfast. The lack of Baker Street is the only constant reminder of the two-year riff between us. That and how closely you seem to be studying me. I sip my tea, eat half of the toast I made for myself and dump the remainders. I notice you've eaten more than me and chuckle. How the times have changed us.

"You don't eat much anymore." You note out loud. "You don't sleep much either. Or go out with friends. You don't do much of anything, anymore John." I'm not sure what you're trying to get from me, stating these things.

"So?" You give me a look over before continuing.  
"You have nightmares which lead to me being scratched and punched. This isn't the first time I've come to rouse you from them. You don't clean up after yourself. And you tried to kill yourself two nights ago." I realize that night wasn't the first night you came to my flat. You've been watching me all this time. You have hurt just as much as I have, and this was all you could do for me until you knew I was safe again. Your gaze is steady into mine. "And that's my fault, isn't it?" I can only stare at you. "I'm sorry," you whisper, "I never meant to hurt you this badly." And suddenly I can't stop myself. I reach down and grab your collar and pull you up to me, face to face.

"Did you miss me, Sherlock?" You open your mouth to reply but I cut it off by speaking louder. "Did it hurt to leave me? Did you feel lost without me by your side? It couldn't have been easy for you either, I know that. But yes, Sherlock. This was your fault, you oaf. I realize there's a lot I'm not gathering, but with you here I can see the colors again. I can eat toast without wanting to hurl. I can sleep more than a few hours knowing I will wake up to you. I can go a day without crying because I won't be missing anything and most importantly," I struggle to hold the tears back and whisper, "most importantly you are here." You wipe a stray tear from my cheek and run your hand to the back of my neck. Your lips hesitate over mine and I push them together, clashing our teeth. I kiss you like I could pour every ounce of my past two years into you, and you fully return it. We break every barrier we have ever built against each other and build a fort for only us. I kiss you like I know all your secrets. You clutch me like you're going to float away. We tangle into each other and try to erase the pain we have caused, shed light into all the dark corners of our hearts. We kiss and know exactly what it means.

We kiss and I'm home.


End file.
